


Paradigm Shift

by 2ndtolastrow



Series: in control’verse [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Autistic Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne-centric, Gen, Misunderstandings, also ft minor tim/duke/jason/steph, because i am also autistic and i say so, honestly everyone feels v minor in this bc of how much its in damians head, im also not entirely sure about the character tags, im not entirely sure i earned my super sons tag but screw it, this can retroactively be applied to the previous fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2ndtolastrow/pseuds/2ndtolastrow
Summary: Damian has moved into his father’s house. Now, if only he could seem to get anything right.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jonathan Samuel Kent & Damian Wayne
Series: in control’verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952833
Comments: 14
Kudos: 146





	Paradigm Shift

**Author's Note:**

> So I got a few sequel requests on boy hostage, and then I read some neat tim&damian meta and went, “wow, in this au theyd probably get along really well, since damian doesnt start off literally trying to murder tim!”
> 
> Unfortunately, my writer brain looked at said meta and went "preboot!ras canonically called damian an it?” and told me i wasnt allowed to write fluffy, adjustment period siblinghood.
> 
> Cw: Damian’s classism and cold takes about adoption  
> Past abuse/dehumanization  
> Internalized dehumanization  
> (Note: the dehumanization is unrelated to damian being autistic)
> 
> EDIT: 12/9/20, cleaned up spacing and added a missing strikethrough

Damian does not like Wayne Manor. It is though no fault of its own—the architecture is far from what he had grown up with, and the decor similarly foreign, but both are tasteful, done with a subtlety he can appreciate, and not of such a shoddy quality that would indicate they were done beyond the means of the inhabitants. 

Nor is it the fault of his father, who, since ascertaining their relationship, has committed to fulfilling what responsibility he has to Damian, or his ‘siblings,’ who are not, at least, openly hostile despite the fact they must wish to take his place in the line of inheritance. Everyone here, at least, calls him by name instead of ‘it’ as his grandfather had.

(And that he has denied the purpose for which he was born is still a raw ache in Damian’s chest, and he _knows_ taking from his father’s heir is wrong, is theft, is a grievance that will never be forgiven, but it is a strange gratitude to have, that he is not treated as an object.)

It is his own fault, because he had let himself grow attached to the Kent household. He misses Metropolis sunlight and the silver-mirror shine of their refrigerator. He _misses_ Jonathan’s peanut butter sandwiches and the itchy feeling of the carpet of his floor, the way his door creaked and stuck in the frame, how he laughed and the way his sleep-talking made it so Damian could never sleep more than a few hours at once.

But Wayne Manor is his blood right, and it is the inheritance he has recognized, so it is here that he will make his home.

He swallows, eyeing Drake across the table. He is eating breakfast calmly, without any work in front of him, for once, and it seems as though their silence so far had been relatively comfortable.

Even if home means attempting to converse with his ‘siblings.’ (His newest _victims_.)

Well, he knows how Jonathan had done it. “What is your favorite color?”

“What?” Drake looks up from his food. His face scrunches up, disgust and disbelief writing themselves across his features. “Are you kidding?”

Damian has misstepped. He can see it, that Drake is _disgusted_ by Damian attempting to offer this—he might tolerate his presence without violence, but he clearly would not stand for Damian attempting to gain a more intimate knowledge of him. 

“Tt. Of course,” he scoffs, because it is better to pretend purposeful offense to someone who he cannot _worsen_ his relationship with than admit his error. “You simply seemed like you needed _something_ to think about.”

He sets down his fork, appetite gone, and rises from the table. 

“Hey!” Drake protests from behind him, but Damian is far from being ready to accept a lecture from _him_.

  
  
  


The halls of the manor have high, flat ceilings, and few handholds to them. They are one of the few features Damian would openly claim are a _flaw_.

Thankfully, the caves beneath do not suffer the same one. 

He had crawled up into the stalactites a few hours previously, wedging himself into their shadows with a spare blanket pressed behind his head to prevent any possible… _incidents…_ involving bat guano.

He has not been allowed _out_ since coming to Gotham, so it was of no surprise that no one came to find him here. It is, however, surprising when he had yet to receive some message from Father or Pennyworth regarding his absence by the time he had finished listening to his baroque playlist, given an attempt at Jonathan’s musical recommendations—if only to mock him—and then gotten through the customary two playthroughs of his playlist of music from ~~home~~ his mother’s tradition.

Light spills in, first in the slight flicker that meant a door had opened and then in the cascading slams of the motion-activated lamps.

He stills, waiting to see who had arrived. This was an indication he had stayed too long, if preparations for patrol were beginning, and if it was Father or Pennyworth, then he would have to return to the upper house and endure whatever it was they had waiting for him. Or whatever _lack_ of anything they had.

(He misses Jonathan, and the way his sleep-talking made it so Damian could never sleep more than a few hours at once.)

(He was doing good in Metropolis, but he had known that his stay with the Kent’s would be a limited one from the start. He is more his father’s son than his mother’s, now, but he had never meant it to be like this.)

(He misses being no one.)

Drake’s voice fills the cave, echoing loudly and confidently. “And then he was like, ‘you looked like you needed _something_ to think about’ and, like, was he calling me lazy? Or stupid? I really don’t—“

Damian has heard enough. He doesn’t want to listen to Drake slandering his character, no matter whether his anger is warranted or not. He lets himself down, tucking the blanket under his arm as he lands with a too-loud sound. He’s out of practice.

He lets himself straighten in the sudden silence, realizing he hasn’t even managed to land facing the door.

He turns, nodding stiffly at Drake and Brown, and strides past them with as much dignity as he can manage.

“Creepy,” Brown mutters, and he fights the urge to spit out an insult in return. He _is_ trying to be better.

 _Everything starts small_ , Kent had said. _I have the ability to help, and so I do. I also have the ability to hurt, and I try not to._

Superman's is a better way than his grandfather’s, at least.

  
  
  


He means to at least say hello first, but the words that come out of his mouth when he sees Grayson are, “What is your favorite color?” 

Damian stills, carefully ready to flee if he goes for violence. He had been heir apparent, after all.

Instead, Grayson looks up, utterly exhausted, and sighs. “Look, Damian, can we just… _not_? Tim told me about this and I really just don’t have the time for… any of that.”

His gaze is half a plea, and Damian swallows and refuses to bite his lip because he has, once again, failed, and he doesn’t know how to do this. What had Jonathan done? (Asked again, and again, and again, and again. Kept trying.) 

So he doesn’t leave. His understanding of the boundary here is flawed, and he’s probably about to make another misstep, but he never wanted Grayson’s place. It’s just all he had.

He swallows again, and he asks, “What are you doing?” 

Grayson eyes him warily.

“I am the former Heir to the Demon.” Damian uses his once-title instead of his stolen one, avoiding the wound that must be fresh. “I may not have been doing anything beyond sitting in this house for a month, but I can help, idiot.”

It’s foolishly sharp, but it seems to get through to him, because Grayson snorts quietly, and shifts over to show the tablet screen in front of him. His tired eyes gain a light in them as he smirks. “How are demons at detective work?”

  
  
  


“Hello,” is actually how he successfully greets Thomas, and perhaps that is why when he asks, “What is your favorite color?” gets him a color in reply.

“Hey,” Thomas says. “I like yellow. What about you?”

“Blue,” Damian says, so relieved he can barely breathe, “or white. Like streetlights on rain-soaked asphalt.”

Thomas whistles, softly. “Pretty cool.”

He puts two fingers against the top of a book to pull it loose, nods at Damian, and turns to go, tucking the volume against his side.

Damian stands, pulling air into his lungs. An ally. (Yellow, like Jonathan.) Of course, by the time he comes back to himself, Thomas is gone.

  
  
  


Grayson is strangely forgiving of Damian’s theft, Drake remains silent and wary, and Thomas seems not to realize it at all—perhaps because he was last in line already—but Todd throws it in his face the moment they meet.

“So this is the newest replacement,” he mutters, lip curling as he eyes Damian up and down. He snorts in disgust. “Hooray for kid number six.”

“The _heir_ ,” Damian can’t help but correct, even if he is growing to wish that he had never admitted himself to being his father’s son. “If you’re going to insult me, at least do it properly.”

“Oh?” Todd grins—a sharp, nasty, cigarette-yellow thing. “Puppy dog’s got teeth.”

“And this,” Grayson sighs, “is going terribly.”

The rooftop quiets to a stilted silence. It’s clear Todd respects Grayson, that Grayson had clawed undisputed obedience from him as heir and Damian doesn’t _understand—_

“We have a mission to complete,” he says, voice going strong, meant for both of them to hear. It is the voice of a leader. “If you two can’t get along, I’ll send Damian home.”

Damian bares his teeth, and nearly protests that Todd—

But Grayson beats him to it. “And then go inside by myself, and let you do whatever the hell you like.”

Todd shifts his helmet under his arm, head moving as though to suggest his eyes are rolling under the domino. “I don’t want drugs on my streets.”

“And yet you smoke,” Damian points out, one eyebrow rising.

“Hey,” Grayson warns. “Let’s just keep it professional, okay?”

Todd snorts, and pulls his helmet on. “Sure.”

Damian breathes in. This man is not his brother, that is certain. He has entered hostile territory to disable an operation a million times with strangers at his back ( _loyal_ strangers), and he can do it a million times more like this. “Of course.”

  
  
  


It goes to hell, and he swears that he’d kill Todd, if he still did.

  
  
  


“Damian!” Jonathan spreads his arms wide at the sight of him, face lighting up, and Damian feels a knot unravel inside of him.

He steps forward, close enough that Jonathan knows he’s welcome to do his best to crush Damian’s ribs. The feeling of his friend’s arms around him is comforting, after six weeks of having only the clumsy distance of his father, excepting the last two, where he’d also had a hesitant alliance with Grayson.

He missed having someone to share space with, to not watch himself with. Father holds stiff dinners with him every other night where he has no idea what is expected of him. Pennyworth is the help and yet not the help. Every meeting with Grayson was carefully planned and centered around the case—the case Todd had blown sky high and sent Damian running as far and fast as he could.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, pulling back. “Why haven’t you called?”

Damian smirks, giving him a side-eye as he steps and twists Jonathan so they’re side by side. “I haven’t wanted to have to crush your confidence. Your taste in music is abhorrent.”

Jonathan laughs, head throwing back so fast his glasses slip up his nose.

Right now, he’s a good person. ( _Not a mistake, not a failed heir, not a demon, not creepy, not a thief, not his grandfather’s vessel, not his father’s son._ ) No one at all.

  
  
  


He takes the train back to Gotham in the evening, knowing his father will see the transaction on the credit card just as he must have seen Damian buying a jacket to cover his soot-stained gear and buying a ticket to get here.

Just as he probably has deduced that Damian is ignoring his texts when they went unanswered. Hopefully. (But then, if he were gone, everything would go back to what was before. His father doesn’t kill, but he might turn a blind eye.)

He takes a taxi to the edge of the neighborhood, and runs the rest of the way, because he hadn’t exactly gotten in his usual workout today and he's already out of practice as it is, he isn’t going to lose muscle tone too.

Pennyworth is just inside the door when he arrives, clearly waiting.

He gives Damian a flat look. “Master Bruce is in his study.”

Damian runs that distance too, despite Pennyworth’s protests. He’s the help, and there’s a thrill to disobedience, and he still feels like no one enough that he _can_.

He slows to a jog for the last hallway, pleased to find his breathing is still steady. The door is shut, and he hesitates. Is he meant to knock?

Brave anger rushes up, and he lets himself in.

Father is at his desk, looming despite being seated. Straight out from the door, he draws the eye, the first part of the scene Damian processes. Grayson sits in front of the desk, but slightly to the side, leaving the view of Father clear. He’s turned around at the sound of the door, and his eyes widen as Damian lets himself in.

Drake is not in the other chair, but leaning against the opposite wall, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Damian wonders why the hell he is, then. It’s not as though he was involved in this matter. Thomas, beside him, at least has a more neutral expression.

“Father,” he says politely, bowing his head in a show of deference, and to hide his face as the knowledge that he’s going to be punished sinks into him.

“Damian,” his father replies, and Damian looks back up, certain he has his expression under control. He gestures towards the free chair. “Sit.”

The economy of words makes it sting all the sharper. He feels all eyes on him as he sets himself into the chair, tries to make it look as though he isn’t waiting to have his sentence issued—Grandfather had hated such displays of weakness, and he will not test his father.

“You went out.”

“Yes.”

“Without telling me.”

“Yes.”

(Grayson makes a noise, here, but his father’s fingers twitch and he quiets, everything fading back into static but their voices, the world tunneling down to just the two of them.)

“Why?”

“Grayson had a case. He needed help.”

“Hn.” One moment, two moments. “What happened?”

“I was distracted. A fire began. Grayson and Todd exited together, and first responders arrived, and so I left.”

He says it like the responsibility is his and his alone but he’d kill Todd, in another life. He knows how it goes. No one else has any importance.

“Damian,” his father says slowly, frown deepening in his face, “why didn’t you come home?”

“Grayson and Todd exited together,” he repeats, bitter taste on his tongue. His eyes flick to Drake and Thomas, suddenly remembering they aren’t alone. “Must they be here?”

He does his best not to make it sound like a plea, and he isn’t certain if he succeeds, from the way Drake‘s lip twitches. His father’s frown deepens even further.

“Why shouldn’t they be?” He phrases it as though he doesn’t know, blandly neutral, and Damian is anger and regret.

( _What? Are you kidding?_ )

“The issue being addressed is my failure and disobedience. Thomas and Drake were involved in neither.”

His father switches tack. “Disobedience?”

“I went out,” Damian reiterates, humiliation burning his cheeks, but he _will not_ dig himself any deeper, he will not fall into this trap, “without permission.”

“Without _telling_ me,” his father corrects. 

Damian’s jaw clenches and he bows his head. His shame burns hotter. _This_ is why they are here.

“Damian,” his father says. “Look at me.”

Damian hates eye contact, hates that he’s being forced to put his emotions on display, ~~hates his father~~. He looks up.

“I’m not angry that you were _disobedient_. I was _worried_ because I didn’t know where you were,” he speaks slowly, almost condescendingly, and Damian burns, burns, burns. “Just like I was _worried_ when you didn’t answer your phone and I had to call Superman to check in on you.”

“Of course, Father.” He goes to bow his head, stops, can’t, eye contact, _look at me_ is a command and he is his father’s son. “I understand,” he lies.

“Why were you distracted?” his father says, leaving it be, eyes that are too much to see and not enough and why does he have to make eye contact.

“I was emotionally engaged by other topics.” He suppresses the urge to bite his lip, hoping this is satisfactory. 

“Why did you go out?” Apparently, it is.

“Grayson needed help,” he repeats.

“Why did you know that?” 

Damian pauses, trying to untangle the question. He had known about Grayson’s case because he had asked, he had asked because he wanted to know Grayson, he had wanted to know because they were both his father’s sons. “It was my duty.”

Wrong answer. His father’s eyebrow quirks and his head tips. “Explain.”

Damian’s eyes flick away and he swallows and forces them back to his father’s eyes. (Damn it.) “I asked him—I asked and he said he was busy so I offered to help.”

(Why is Drake here?)

“What part of that was your job?”

“My _duty_ ,” and Damian refuses this correction even though he should not correct his father, “was to ask.”

“What’s so important about my favorite color?” Grayson bursts out and Drake coughs in surprise and he sees Thomas twitch in his peripherals and Damian’s face burns.

He keeps his eyes on his father’s, hoping he isn’t doing this _wrong_ , and waits.

“Damian,” his father says slowly, and Damian wonders, suddenly, if he is being as careful as Damian has spent six weeks being. “You can answer him.”

Damian takes it as permission to face Grayson, even if his eyes settle over Grayson’s shoulder because he _can’t_ keep making eye contact. “You are Father’s son, and I am supposed to know you. Your favorite color—“

His words fail. How does he explain— _how does he explain_ — “Jonathan and I—it means—I’m blue.” (Why didn’t he plan this first? He is Damian Wayne, he is the Son of the Bat, and he is meant to be _in control_.) “And white. Like rain and streetlights on asphalt. Brow—“ (He is his father’s son, now.) “Yellow, like Jonathan. It’s—I _chose_ that. Jonathan can never decide but he’s always thinking of something because it’s—“ _who you are_.

He stops, words done tearing themselves from his throat. He will not finish that thought. _Damian_ has a favorite color. It was childish, and he has one anyway because he could make that choice. 

He’d given up part of that to be here, he realizes, and he hates that because he hasn’t even been doing anything and he wants to be no one again because he could be _Damian_ , no Wayne necessary.

“Synesthesia?” Drake says, sharp and sarcastic, and Damian _does not_ turn around.

“Why not brown?” his father asks and Damian wants to vomit. “Damian, what’s brown?”

“Do they—“

“No.”

“Brown,” he says _-confesses-forces_ _out of his mouth_ , as soon as the door closes behind Thomas and Drake, “like my mother’s skin.” _Orange, like the Los Angeles sky._

He turns to face him, stomach twisting in a knot because _look at me_ is a command. 

His father is not frowning. He looks, Damian thinks, like he’s in pain. “Why not brown?”

“I am no longer the Heir to the Demon,” Damian says. “I am yours.”

The look gets worse. His father does not speak for a very long moment.

Finally, he says, “Damian, that doesn’t mean your mother isn’t your mother.”

“Of course she is,” Damian replies, because that is a fact and he knows his father does not _understand_. “But I am _yours_.”

“Favorite color is identity, right?” Grayson asks, and Damian nods before he can stop himself. “Bruce is always going to be your dad, Damian, just like Talia’s always going to be your mom. Why do you have to be a different person to be his son instead of hers?”

He waits, this time, watching until, _finally_ , Father nods, face sliding into a blank mask. 

“I am _heir_ ,” he says. “That means obedience and adherence to a code. Ra's al Ghul’s does not allow for color. Father’s does not allow for being my mother’s.”

“Damian,” Father says and he looks at him, at the pained look twisting-tearing apart his face. “You don’t _belong_ to me. You are a person, and that means you make your own choices.”

And Damian has been called an ‘it’ before and he is no longer, but he still _knew_ he wasn’t one before he left. “I chose _this_.”

“No.” His father shakes his head. “You are my son, not my possession—not my _heir_. You don’t have to obey me, Damian. All that it entails is that _I_ love and care for you.”

Damian isn’t heir. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to re-organize. “I don’t have to…”

His father shakes his head.

“Oh.” Damian breathes in. “I can go out again?”

“Yes,” his father says. “We can work out the logistics, if you want to do that.”

“Yes.” Damian breathes in. Breathes out. Breathes in again. “I don’t have to stay in the house?”

“No.”

Breathes in. Breathes out. Breathes in. “I’m not. I didn’t _take_ this. From Grayson.”

“No,” Grayson replies. “Trust me, if I were going to say anyone took something, it’d be Jason. …Which I don’t, because he didn’t.”

“Tt,” Damian says, because that doesn’t make any sense, Todd is—except neither of them is heir, are they? They’re all just sons (except Cain). “Can I— _May_ I go?”

He has the ability. He can make the choice. He could get up and go but he wants to make sure the conversation has satisfied everyone else. _May he_.

“Of course,” his father says, and Damian takes off running.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments/kudos/etc are always welcome, as is coming to yell at me on tumblr (@secondtolastrow)  
> (Also, just to be clear: Jason, when they were inside, insulted Damian, intending it in lighthearted, battle-banter kinda way. Damian didn’t take it like that, _and_ it distracted him to the point where he missed an explosive or something, allowing the fire to be started.)


End file.
